No Weekends
by Minerva Solo
Summary: The Doctor's invited on to a late night talk show. Drunk, maybe even stoned, he gives some interesting answers to certain questions. Short one off piece.


No Weekends

A/N: My first The Authority fic. I absolutely love this series, though it's hard to find much fic for it. Apollo/Midnighter is one of the few canon pairings in any series I like, and Jeoron is such an underdog that I can't help but adore him. And Jenny's just damn cool.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of The Authority characters, or any chat show hosts.

Spoilers: Jenny Sparks: The Secret History of the Authority, most of the comics.

Warnings: language, angst, written while watching Human Traffic

"So, who, of the members of The Authority, would you consider yourself closest to?"

The Doctor laughed solidly for almost a minute. The interviewer began to look worried.

"It's not a bloody clubhouse," the Doctor eventually spluttered. "Our powers compliment each other, not our fucking personalities." He paused, and then asked, "Can I say 'fuck' at this time of night?"

"Our viewers would probably be disappointed if you didn't," the interviewer sighed. Once upon a time he'd dreamed of prime time talk shows with actors and politicians and people like Jack Hawksmore. Getting The Doctor for an interview was like getting the President of Uruguay or some other country none of the dead drunk viewers could even pronounce instead of the President of America.

"It's like," the Doctor waved his hands vaguely, "people think we're just this big bunch of mates. We all sit down and watch movies together and share popcorn and shit. Can I say 'shit' too? Anyway, we're not. Jenny chose us because between the lot of us there's not much we can't deal with. We're superheroes, not super mates."

"So perhaps a better question is who you get on least well with?" the interviewer said sharply.

"Not getting into that," the Doctor laughed. "Fuck no. Most of them hate me. Can't blame 'em. But, it's like, I don't hate them. I resent them, when they hate me and when they're all so fucking hypocritical, but don't hate them. Don't know them well enough to say that."

The Doctor sat up in his seat, slowly and carefully. The world knew he was nursing a hangover, but he knew what the world thought of him anyway.

"All I wanted was to be normal," he began, looking at the camera instead of the interviewer. "I've had one nervous break down, and fuck knows I'm headed for another. First time, I thought: That's it. No more. Don't need the stress. Get a nice little apartment, some dull nine to five job, go out clubbing and get trashed at the weekends. And then some fucker has the audacity to tell me I've got the power of the world. I haven't got a heart, you know, just the whole bloody planet crammed into my chest. I could feel the breakdown coming back, I could feel my mind caving, so I took an easy way out and just lived trashed. And the Jenny fucking Sparks turns up and tell me to do something. I was just hoping that if I stayed trashed enough I'd either die or those previous Doctor's would go find another candidate, because I blatantly wasn't suited, right? And she fucking shoots herself in the head. It's just... Fine. You know? Fine, I can do this. I have this power, and I can use it. And then I'm meant to be saving the world."

"So you'd give it up, if you could?" the interviewer said, eyes glazed.

"Not a matter of can or can't," the Doctor muttered. "Okay, you remember that time I Oh-Deed? Not intentional or anything, but not the point. There was the huge fuss about it, about how I was screwing up on the job. What people forget, you see, is that I'm never _not on the job_. Most people, right, they work nine to five, then they have their weekend and they go out with mates and maybe they get trashed or whatever, but they've got those days when they know that they're not needed. I have no weekends, ever. I can't go out and get trashed, ever, because I don't have that Sunday safety of getting over the come down before I'm back at work. I'll assume that sure, someone threatened the world last week, no one's going to do it again that soon, and then I'll get trashed and then, bang, someone does threaten the world. So I end up looking like shit, just because I thought that maybe it was _my_ weekend, you know?"

"I can see how it must be exhausting," the interviewer offered.

"I can't go out clubbing, because I'm famous. No friends here, you see. I've got fucking nothing in common with the rest of The Authority. Apollo and Midnighter have each other, and to a lesser extent so do Jack and Angie. Plus they both have, like, work. Curing cancer, reducing pollution, that kind of work. Work everybody loves them for and work you can take time off from to shag each other. And Shen... Shen just like being alone, I think. She meditates and flies and I can tell she doesn't like me anyway. I don't meet any of their standards. See, the things I like doing, the films I like watching, even the places I like eating... None of them would touch any of it. And I can't touch any of it either, because then the papers get hold of it and I'm some immoral doped up crackhead slut who shouldn't be allowed to be a model for our children."

"What about the drugs?" the interviewer persisted. If he was lucky, some journalist would be watching and tonight's show might even make front page tomorrow.

"What about them? Loadsa people take drugs. Look, I'm not encouraging people, okay? I feel like Ozzy Osbourne some days. I'm a walking advertisement for why not to take drugs. Look at me kids, I'm fucked up. half the time I'm so fucking paranoid I won't come out of my room, the rest of the time I can't understand why no one will let me hug them. I'm off half the hard stuff now anyway. Oh-Deeing will do that for you. But you know what no one else has even considered? With my powers, I need never suffer so much as a hangover, let alone Oh-Dee. I could be high as a kite all the fucking time and have the body of Mr Universe. But I don't do that. I don't wipe years off the Earth's future just to keep myself sane. I'm not going to sit here and say 'I can do this, but you can't.' Jenny Sparks drank like a fish and smoked like a chimney for a hundred years, but you wouldn't know it form looking at her. Well, you can tell from me. I almost died, and I didn't try too save myself because I didn't want to be that person. maybe I should have, considering what else was going on, but screw that. I'll stick to the softer stuff from now on, and I'm going to ease off that. If anyone else has an idea of how I can do this and not commit suicide, let me know."

"Do you think anyone respects you?"

"Now that's just fucking cruel," The Doctor glowered at the interviewer. "And no, they don't. Unless they're fucking idiots. I'm easily the most powerful member of The Authority, and look what power does to you, kids. And that's why they picked me for this. Because they knew I wouldn't use the power to try and take over the world, or destroy it, or make people love me. I don't want this, therefore I've got it. I won't use it unless I have to, you see?"

"But you have nothing else to offer."

The Doctor stood up and snatched his coat from the back of the chair. "I do, you know," he said softly, no longer looking at anything other than his own feet. "I'm a person too. I'm great fun at parties, and I'm generous with any shit I've got, and I'll clear up the vomit after it's all over. I'm good with computers and I make a mean fry up. But all those are only useful if you've got friends who'll appreciate it, because the world in general doesn't. It's only good if you've got Saturdays to get wasted on and Sundays to recover."

Jeroen wandered out of the studio, still muttering to himself. No one bothered stop him.


End file.
